


From Tomorrow with Love

by Serenade



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Friendship, Future Fic, M/M, One Last Mission, Retirement, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 04:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17037041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/pseuds/Serenade
Summary: Klaus and Dorian in the 21st century.





	From Tomorrow with Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syllic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllic/gifts).



Klaus resists the urge to yawn, as he finishes reviewing the dozenth file in a row. He drops it into his outbox, but a looming stack still waits. He contemplates the globe of the world that sits on a corner of his desk, wanting to jump on a plane somewhere else, anywhere else.

They called it a promotion, but if only he had known! More and more paperwork, less and less fieldwork. A desk job. A not so subtle way to push him into retirement. The Chief already hung up his own hat five years ago, golfing in the Bahamas or some such nonsense. His replacement is younger than Klaus, and Klaus cannot bring himself to call the man "sir". The new Chief has nothing but praise for Klaus and calls him a living legend. But he also seems to think legends belong safely tucked away on pedestals in museums.

The first time they met, the new Chief peered at the globe. There are nations that no longer exist. There are borders that have shifted like rivers. "Is it an antique?"

"No. It's from the 1970s."

"Isn't that half a century ago--" He saw the expression on Klaus's face, and shut up.

At least the man leaves him alone to get on with the job. Not like the Alphabets, pestering him to sign forms for every little thing. They aren't his old team, not all of them. A is running the bureau in Oslo. Z is on the ground in Moscow. Klaus is stuck here handholding the new recruits. They don't look old enough to drive, let alone work for NATO Intelligence.

Klaus flips through the next file, getting up to pace the room, charged with restless energy. He frowns at the pile of books on the filing cabinet. It was not there yesterday. They have been clearing out the archives of atlases and almanacs. He needs to warn someone that his office is not a junkyard.

Klaus picks up the topmost book. A battered hardcover text. A travelogue. He reads, " _Wall to Wall: From Beijing to Berlin by Rail_." He snorts. If you took that train expecting to see the wall at the other end, you would be in for a disappointing experience. He tosses it back on the pile.

Out of date. Obsolete. It's a sobering thought.

Klaus reads through the file again. This is supposed to be a desk job. But it doesn't have to be.

***

Klaus arrives at the museum ten minutes early, enough time to sweep the foyer for unwanted company. No sooner has he satisfied himself, than Dorian steps out from behind a pillar. Always a fan of the dramatic entrance. Dorian is dressed conservatively for him, in a deep blue cashmere coat, with a matching hat perched jauntily on his head.

"You called?" he says.

Klaus narrows his eyes. Something is different. Those golden curls are an extremely improbable shade.

"Are you dyeing your hair?" Klaus says, incredulous.

"I'm flattered you noticed," Dorian coos, but his flirting feels rote. There is genuine annoyance underneath.

"It seems the proverb is true," Klaus says. "You can grow old, and still not grow up."

"Not everyone can look distinguished in grey," Dorian says, mournfully. "With this hair, I'd look like Baba Yaga."

When Klaus tells him the reason for this meeting, Dorian laughs and laughs. Klaus waits in silent resignation until Dorian has exhausted his mirth. "You? An art historian?"

"That's why it's called a disguise," Klaus says, with great patience. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"I'm not sure it's actually possible. You love tanks. You hate art."

"I don't hate it. I just don't care about it."

"That's even worse!"

They make a slow circuit of the exhibits as they talk, their conversation blending into the chatter of the crowd. They pause in front of a large mural, of water lilies floating in a pond. Pretty enough, if you like that sort of thing, but the accompanying label is three paragraphs long. Klaus has no idea why you would need more than a sentence to describe it. This is Dorian's domain.

"I don't need to pretend a lifetime of study," Klaus says. "I need to pretend for an hour."

"It will be a challenge, infiltrating a conference like this. Even with forged credentials." Dorian bites his lip. "I should do it instead."

"No," Klaus says immediately. "It has to be me."

The thing is, Dorian's not wrong. He knows more about art history than Klaus could ever hope to learn. But if Klaus lets Dorian go undercover for him, Dorian would just be another operative in the field, reporting to Klaus behind his desk. An irrevocable shift in their relations. Klaus doesn't want that.

"Don't you trust me?"

"It's not that," Klaus says. "The success or failure of this mission will depend on your training. I'm trusting you with my life."

"Oh, Major," Dorian says, starry-eyed, as though it were a declaration of love.

***

They agree to meet for daily lessons at Klaus's own apartment. They can't risk being observed or overheard in public. And bringing Dorian to his office would raise questions that Klaus has no desire to answer. He has the authority to hire consultants, and he has the authority to undertake missions. It doesn't stop the bureaucrats from throwing obstacles in his path, like _medical fitness_ and _insurance liability_. He's not an invalid yet.

Klaus expects a knock on the door. Instead, he hears pebbles on glass. Dorian stands under his window in the rain like some goddamn idiot, grinning and waving. His hair is speckled with droplets. His clothes cling to his body in an alarming way. He probably thinks of himself as the romantic hero in a terrible movie.

"People hardly ever go out to the movies anymore," Dorian says, once he has climbed inside. "They stay home and watch Netflix."

He droops like a wet peacock. Klaus throws a towel at him. "Stop dripping all over my carpet."

Dorian emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later, pink from the shower, wrapped in a plain cotton robe. Klaus finishes up with the coffee machine, and sets down two cups of espresso on the kitchen table. "Well? What have you got for me?" Seeing Dorian widen a smile, he hastily amends that to, "What are we covering today?"

***

Their last lesson is the night before the conference. Dorian invites Klaus to visit his townhouse, to view certain items from his art collection. The only reason Klaus agrees is sheer curiosity.

The place is in wild disarray. Statues crowd the walls. Paintings lean against furniture. Jewellery spills from boxes.

"Did you steal all these?" Klaus says.

"No," Dorian says, indignant. "Well, not recently. They're from my own collection. I'm planning a little adventure."

Klaus listens with growing incredulity as Dorian recounts his brilliant idea. A reverse heist. It's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. "It won't work. A museum can't keep goods of unknown provenance that just mysteriously appear."

Dorian waves a hand. "I'm working on the details."

"You can't just have a charity auction like a normal person?" It's a rhetorical question. Dorian has never done anything like a normal person.

"Where would be the excitement in that?"

Klaus sighs. "I'm surprised you can bear to part with any of it."

"I do adore the thrill of the hunt. But they do take up a lot of room--in my home, and in my heart. Time to share the love, I think." Dorian stops in front of a statue on a plinth. "I will miss you though."

The statue is carved from white marble. A man draped in a long cloak, that flows down his back and leaves the rest of him bare. His eyes stare out towards infinity.

"Apollo," Dorian pronounces. "The most beautiful of all the gods. The patron god of the sun."

Contrary to common assumption, Klaus does appreciate the value of art. He understands the concept of cultural treasures. Works that are the heritage of a nation or a people. That's what museums and galleries are for. Even his ancestral home, Schloss Eberbach, is custodian to a priceless collection of paintings.

But Dorian's regard for art has never been about historic importance or scholarly significance, let alone mere financial reward. His appreciation is personal, almost intimate.

"Art is beauty. But art is also immortality." Dorian traces his fingers over white marble. "What do we know of the sculptor who shaped this face, except that he loved to look upon it, day after day? Without art, how do we know we exist?"

"You're drunk," Klaus says.

"I assure you, I have never been more sober in my life."

"Let's get you to bed." Klaus tucks his arm around Dorian's shoulders, and attempts to discreetly sniff his breath. Dorian turns his head at the wrong moment, and brushes his mouth across Klaus's jaw.

"All you had to do was ask," he purrs.

Klaus rolls his eyes, and dumps Dorian onto the pillows. "Departure is at 0600. Don't be late."

"Are you going to wake me with a kiss?" Dorian says, dreamily.

"If by a kiss, you mean a bucket of cold water." It's an automatic response, which Klaus only thinks about a moment later. If Dorian's flirting is rote, Klaus's dismissal is likewise rote. He doesn't want to walk through life on autopilot. He remains standing there, looking down at Dorian, who smiles up from the pillows.

"Do you know the story of Pygmalion?" Dorian says. "He carved a statue so beautiful he fell in love with it. The gods granted his wish and brought the statue to life."

It sounds like the kind of fanciful nonsense that Dorian would like. Klaus retorts, "Did it love him back?"

"Ah. That's the question, isn't it?" Dorian stretches out a hand, the same as when he touched the face of the Apollo. Klaus tenses in place. But Dorian simply lets his hand fall again, short of its target. "Who can know?"

***

Dorian appears on time the next morning, ready to pick up Klaus. He pulls into the driveway, mercifully not in his bright red Porsche, but in a nondescript brown sedan. Dorian insisted on coming along as the driver. Klaus insisted on a respectable car.

Klaus strolls out to the car, dressed in a tweed suit, wearing spectacles, and with grey streaks in his hair. It's a rather clichéd portrayal of an academic, but he's not aiming for originality.

Dorian stares, mouth open.

"What?" Klaus says.

"Not everyone can look distinguished with grey hair," Dorian says. "How do _you_ manage it, of all people?"

Klaus feels an inexplicable warmth, which he tries unsuccessfully to quash. He's gone soft in his old age, he despairs. Completely mellowed out.

"Keep your mind on the mission," he snaps.

They motor their way up a winding mountain path to the conference venue, through sunlight and springtime. It might even be a pleasant drive, if Klaus wasn't trying to hold every detail he has studied this past week in his memory.

They arrive at a mediaeval monastery, converted to a function centre, with sweeping views of the valley from the stonework arches. Gargoyles loom overhead, covered in moss and lichen. Conference attendees are already milling around the main entrance.

"Stay with the car," Klaus tells Dorian. "Get ready for a quick exit if we need."

***

Klaus planned to last an hour. In truth, it takes less than ten minutes for things to go sideways. It isn't Dorian's fault. The opposite, in fact. Klaus doesn't give himself away with a slip of the tongue: some error in terminology, some gap in knowledge. No, he catches someone else in a lie.

He's not the only spy pretending to be a scholar. He's just better at it.

Theobald Garamond has made some utterly nonsensical claim about Mycenaean warrior kings. He must have seen Klaus react. But instead of rapidly excusing himself, as Klaus expects, he says, "I'm working on a paper based on new findings. Would you care to take a look at the draft? I could use your thoughts."

Would a genuine academic follow this man to a secluded room to consult? Klaus is Klaus. He decides to spring the trap. There have been rumours of trade in stolen artefacts and money funding criminal cartels. His brief is to quietly observe and discreetly photograph any evidence. But if that evidence is going to be moved or destroyed--

They end up in a cat-and-mouse chase through the catacombs beneath the monastery, past very interesting crates of artefacts, which Klaus captures on film. Enough to justify a full investigation. A shot whistles over his shoulder. Klaus dives to the right. Pain flares in his leg. Disregard it. Keep running. The light of the exit is just ahead.

The knee gives way. He skids across the flagstones, cursing. He pushes himself upright and hobbles towards the stairs. A hand grabs his elbow.

"Leaving so soon?" Theobald says. "Major von dem Eberbach."

Klaus flings him off, but two more men converge on him, holding him fast.

Theobald looks him up and down. "So this is the famous Iron Klaus? More like Rusted Klaus!"

His men echo his laughter. Klaus curls his fingers and breathes in deep. He has no time for anger. He scans his surroundings, thinking fast.

A new voice rings out. "How dull it is to pause, to make an end! To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!"

A figure stands at the top of the stairs. It wears a flowing white robe that looks like a repurposed dust cloth, and the golden mask of a warrior king. Klaus has a moment to think, _Dorian, you idiot. What are you doing?_

The men draw their guns and level them at the figure. Theobald yanks the nearest arm down. "Don't hit the mask!"

The figure descends the stairs, like a guardian spirit come to life. "But something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done, not unbecoming men that strove with gods."

Klaus has never seen anything more absurd. Reckless showmanship. Or sheer desperation. His heart swells in his chest. The men hold their fire, looking rattled at this apparition. But Theobald is not the superstitious type. "Stay where you are. Or I'll put a hole right through--" He swings his gun around to Klaus.

But Klaus is no longer there. From behind Theobald, he brings down his hand in a swift strike. Seconds later, all three men are disarmed and groaning. Klaus crosses the floor, weapons in his possession, to stand side by side with Dorian.

"I told you to stay with the car," he growls.

"Did you?" Dorian says, with a winning smile. "I must be growing hard of hearing, in my old age."

***

Klaus closes the file with satisfaction and drops it into his outbox.

Klaus props his feet on his desk and spins the globe idly. Vienna, Cairo, Istanbul, Rome. Every location reminds him of a different adventure. Dorian has been a constant in his life for longer than, well, almost anything else. Ever since they met, their careers have been intertwined. For decades, they have chased each other, all over the world. Where other people go on vacation, they have been threatened, imprisoned, bombed, stabbed, and shot. Their travel slideshow would be a conversation stopper--if it weren't all classified.

He thinks about walls that came down. Things you thought would stand forever, gone in a year, forgotten in a generation. Empires fall. Nothing lasts. Now is only a moment in eternity.

Half an hour later, Klaus sends a message to the new Chief.

***

They meet again at the museum, in the pillared foyer. Dorian stands out with his glorious golden mane, flowing freely over his shoulders in a cascade of curls. This time he wears a purple suit with a red rose pinned to the lapel. He sweeps a bow and offers the rose to Klaus. So much for keeping a low profile.

Klaus hands Dorian an envelope.

Dorian shakes his head in polite demur. "Honestly, Major, consider it a favour from a friend."

"It's not a cheque. It's a plane ticket."

Dorian lifts an eyebrow. "Packing me off to Alaska?"

"Hardly." Klaus holds up a second envelope. "Unless I planned to send myself there too."

Dorian widens his eyes, surprised and pleased. He throws his arms around Klaus in an enthusiastic embrace. "My dear Major. Where are we going?"

Klaus allows the hug, an involuntary curve on his lips. "Somewhere we've never been."

The future.


End file.
